


The Ghost of You

by panda_shi



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Cute, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Jutsu Gone Wrong, M/M, Pre-Naruto Canon Era, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: An encounter with an enemy sends Iruka back in time 18 years. He doesn't exist. His family doesn't exist. In a world where he has nothing and knows no one, showing a bit of compassion to an ostracised stranger leads him to the greatest love he'll ever know.
Relationships: Hatake Sakumo/Umino Iruka
Comments: 28
Kudos: 149





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Self Beta'd. I blame Tsukki and Hades and Rika, too.
> 
> Head canon notes: Sakumo married early and had Kakashi at 17. Right now, in this past timeline, Sakumo is 21, Kakashi is 4 and Iruka is 18. Iruka goes back to the year where Sakumo commits seppuku.

One moment Iruka is charging forward towards the enemy, hands slapping the seal formation for the water release jutsu.

The next moment he is stumbling forward into what looks like an alley, diving headfirst into a dumpster.

He falls forward, losing his balance in the most ungraceful of ways, missing his steps and landing chest first on a pile of garbage. Iruka’s fall is cushioned by the smell of rot, sludge and paper, his boots crunching on broken glass as the feeling of being displaced clears and he is able to right himself up again, spinning wildly, looking for his team, his commander, the enemy.

Except Kakashi is nowhere to be seen. His teammates are nowhere within the perimeter and Iruka knows that they’re fight had not in fact taken place in an alley, but in a small clearing in the forest by the lake, two hundred kilometers away from Konoha’s eastern gate. Iruka pats his utility pouch, sagging with relief when the documents remain with him, just as the flutter of pigeons fly over head, making him look up at the stormy gray skies, shrouded by thick rain clouds that rumbles.

It’s cold.

It’s winter.

It hadn’t been winter when Iruka had left Konoha for his mission. It had been the middle of spring, the frost long gone. Fire had been a vision in green, wild flowers rising from the earth, where it had once looked like weeds to the casual eye until they bloomed to a feast for Konoha’s butterflies and bees. But here, in this moment, the onset of inky darkness begins to sink into the marrow of Iruka’s bones, the cold creeping past the protective layer of his boots, something that isn’t fit for winter at all. Here, the skies flashes a bolt of purple energy, where just beyond the opening the alley, rickshaws are rushing with their customers, people hurrying indoors as buildings hold their breath and prisoners within them from the onslaught that is about to sweep through the streets.

Iruka puts his hands together, the sharp call of _kai_ cutting through the air and the stillness that follows.

Except nothing changes.

The alley around him doesn’t melt to that of the forest. No Katsura trees appear in place of the brick buildings on Iruka’s left and right. No clear, cloudless blue skies replace the clap of lightning that illuminates the heavens. The street beyond the alley doesn’t disappear, nor do the rush of civilians.

Iruka puts his hand together once more, channeling more chakra, trying to break free of the genjutsu that he can’t quite break.

Nothing breaks. Nothing shifts.

Iruka is forced to stand there, his heart drumming in his chest, as all the reasons of what could have possibly gone wrong comes flooding in. Iruka’s breathing starts to stagger as he stares unseeingly at the rush of people seeking shelter from the rain, his hands falling to hand limply on his sides. Stretching his senses outwards doesn’t provide him with any answers either because he gets slammed by the bustle of a hundred shinobi presences, hundreds of chakra signatures when there should only be the four chakra signatures of their opponents, Kakashi’s chakra signature and Iruka’s two other teammates.

None of them are present.

Sweat begins to bead between Iruka’s brow, cold and dreading, as his throat goes about as dry as the winter wind that hangs in the air, his feet slowly, carefully, carrying him forward towards the narrow entrance of the alley. He finds himself staring at Tea Avenue, at the familiarity of it just not as crowded, the establishments not as congested. Iruka finds himself blinking, staring at the familiar family owned bakery, _Ichiban_ , one of the few establishments that had managed to survive the Kyuubi attack all those years ago and remains running strong. Except their signage on this street is white and red when Iruka knows it should be yellow and red. The lettering is all wrong too. It’s also missing the bread logo that they’re widely known for.

The sidewalk is all wrong. It isn’t paved and painted but lined with dirt and grass. The signage of everything is mostly wooden and painted, awash with sepia and bland colors. The lights that hang outside these establishments are mostly plastic lanterns and not the glow of neon lights that Iruka is familiar with. Iruka knows Tea Avenue like the back of his hand. Knows every nook and cranny since it’s re-construction after the Kyuubi attack, knows the best hiding spaces, the storage spaces of shops and merchants alike, the popular spots for street vendors and cargo carts. He knows because he’s spent _years_ hiding in them, running away from those chasing him after a successful prank. He knows because he walks the length of Tea Avenue everyday from his apartment to the Academy, to and fro. Right next to Ichiban should have been Haru’s izakaya, except Haru’s isn’t there. The popular café that had re-opened just months ago isn’t even present, the one that had a constant line outside its doors for its popular custard tarts and cute pastel painted interiors. Rokkasen Yakiniku is nowhere to be found too, when it should be there, and at this time of the day, they’d should have their board on the street displaying their deal of the day.

It's wrong.

It’s all wrong.

Above him, the clouds rumble, flashing a dark purple before icy sheets of rain begins to pour. It obscures Iruka’s vision in seconds, soaking him to the bone with a chill as he quickly ducks out of the alley and into one of the shadowed corners of what looks like a book store, standing under the shade and wrapping his arms around himself with a shiver. He pushes himself against the concrete wall, barely dodging the splash of water over a small pot hole when a rickshaw comes running past. The storm drain gurgles, releasing a wash of pungent smell of earth and muddied water, of garbage that should have been disposed of properly, leaving Iruka wrinkling his nose as he stares up at the sky.

It's not going to let up any time soon.

Iruka will need better shelter. He is going to need to regroup and think.

Iruka peers past the glass of the closed bookstore, finding it odd that this unfamiliar bookstore would be closed at this time of day when he catches sight of the newspaper stand by the door, where the drum of his heart comes skidding to a sharp halt when he catches sight of the date of what looks to be that day’s paper.

It’s wrong.

It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.

It shouldn’t be reading December.

It shouldn’t be reading eighteen years backwards either.

So either it’s a cosmic joke or Iruka is stuck in a genjutsu so strong that he can’t quite break free.

Iruka leaps for the rooftop, finding his highest vantage points and looks westwards, where the Hokage monuments is sure to be present. Except Iruka finds himself staring at the stone carving of the Shodaime, Nidaime and the Sandaime, the Yondaime’s face is nowhere to be seen.

Iruka pulls out the kunai from his holster, sucks in a deep, shaky cold breath and slices his palm as deep as he can tolerate.

Blood pools in his palms, dripping down to the bookstores wet front step, trickling down into the gutter and disappearing. The world doesn’t shift, Iruka doesn’t get suspended in a moment of displacement as realities tilt between false and real. He remains grounded in the present, solid in that very moment, clutching as his bleeding hand that stings and throbs in protest, as his mind spins rapidly in the opposite direction thinking, no, no, no, _nonono—_

*

Iruka wanders the streets of Tea Avenue in a daze, trying to shake off the shock of his new reality and not quite sure what to do with himself. The rain hasn’t stopped but has instead, slowed down in its merciless pour, no longer obscuring Iruka’s vision in thick sheets of ice. He has bypassed a grocery store, another bookstore and a small tobacco and snack stand, all of which had newspapers that reads the exact same date of eighteen years ago.

Eighteen years ago, Iruka didn’t even exist yet.

Eighteen years ago, his parents would have just met. Or maybe they haven’t yet.

Eighteen years ago had been the third great war. The Kyuubi is yet to be release and wreak havoc in everything its path.

Eighteen years ago, Namikaze Minato had not been inaugurated as the Hokage yet.

Iruka shivers in the cold, looking left and right like he’s seeing ghosts of the past, at the people who are mostly dressed more traditionally, where the Uchiha police patrol presence remains strong, their clan mark visible as they herd people to safety from the winter storm. Iruka passes by one in a daze, his jaw slack as he gets a questioning look and get told to get indoors immediately, barely managing to stammer an acknowledging response before his feet carry him towards the direction of the Hokage tower.

Nobody he knows would be even alive. His friends, even the ones older than him would be mere infants.

The Sandaime should be able to provide him some answers if he doesn’t get treated like a traitor first or worse, a spy.

Iruka’s feet comes to a slow halt, as he weighs his options carefully. He had enough money to last him on sever rations for about two weeks. He would have enough to maybe rent shelter space for a few days but then risk having little to no meals at all. His options are severely limited and with the Uchiha police patrolling the streets of Konoha rather diligently, squatting didn’t seem to be the best favourable option either.

Hiding as a civilian during this sensitive and politically unstable time wouldn’t be quite safe either.

Iruka wracks his mind, debating risk at being treated and questioned like a spy if it means at the very least, some sort of shelter. He is innocent and not a traitor to Konoha at all, not by a long shot. Iruka can bet on his chances that he’ll clear interrogation after some gruelling methods of questioning if he cooperates.

A crash to his side makes him turn, followed by shouts that gets muffled by the rain. Iruka watches as a pair of Uchiha men come running down the street, hands on their weapon holsters ready, only to pause by an alley, look at each other and walk away. Like they saw nothing. Like they heard nothing.

Another crash reaches Iruka’s ears, followed by angry shouts and cutting tones that makes his feet move forward.

And see a group of young men rough housing a tall, broad man who _allows_ them. The rain plasters long strands of silver hair onto a jounin vest, as the man is pushed between three others that surround him. They call him useless, degrading names, spit on him and say things like, you should be dead, you don’t deserve to walk these streets, shame on you, rid us of your presence and shame. On the ground, Iruka finds a plastic bag of fallen groceries, vegetables that gets squashed under shinobi boots, fruits that rolls away and disappear behind the large garbage bins.

Someone raises a fist and it catches the man that refuses to fight right in the jaw with a sharp crack.

He falls, right into a pile of garbage and remains still for a few seconds before he carefully, and rather gracefully gets back on his feet, his chin held up high with dignity even when one of the younger men kicks him in the back of his legs that makes him fall to his knees in rain water and sludge. Iruka watches in shock and horror as someone knees him in the abdomen, over and over again, as the man doubles up and coughs, grunts with the pain and pressure that gets delivered to him and, gods, it’s wrong to fight someone who won’t raise their fist back, who refuses to defend themselves, when they’re all wearing Konoha’s emblem. It’s wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —

Iruka snaps forward, speed cutting through rain water as he bodily _shoves_ the attacker kneeing the fallen man. He ducks when someone tries to take a swing at him, delivering a well timed round house kick and blocking a second attack to his side with his hands. He shoves the third attacker backwards, steps forward and delivers a front house kick.

“Pick on someone your own size, assholes!” Iruka snaps, watching three men get up from being stunned, which quickly gets replaced by disgust. Iruka flinches when one of them spits in his face, saying nothing, refusing for the action to get a rise out of him when they simply scoff in his direction and takes off out of the alley and into the street.

Iruka stands there, breathing hard, reaching up to wipe spit and rainwater off his face before he kneels down to the man on the ground.

That’s when he sees it. The Hatake crest on his sleeve, the tanto blade on his back that he remembers from textbooks and case studies of the legendary White Fang. And when the man raises his chin, Iruka’s breath catches because gods, Hatake Sakumo is young. So, so very young, his eyes dulled with what looks like defeat and acceptance of the hate the village. Iruka has heard stories, of how Sakumo had chosen to save his comrades, how he had risked intelligence that had been crucial in favor of saving lives. How those lives lived years later but also turned to him like rabid dogs because that intelligence, apparently, had been worth more than their lives.

Sakumo had committed suicide some years later, taking with him the shame he had brought upon the Hatake name and leaving behind a child prodigy that would later be known as Sharigan Kakashi.

It’s wrong, iruka thinks. It’s not fair. But then, war is never fair. War is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking creature. And war certainly doesn’t determine who is right, except for who is left. Preserving life, Iruka thinks, takes precedent. Intelligence, after all, comes and goes and can be rendered useless in minutes or hours. This is wrong, Iruka thinks, to attack a man whose done nothing but serve the village, bleed for the village, to the best of his ability and treat him like one mistake has rendered all his successes worthless.

This isn’t _fair_.

Iruka swallows, and places a hand on Sakumo’s shoulders. “Are you all right?” Sakumo doesn’t answer, not verbally, dark stormy gray eyes that gleam like polished expensive marble of daimyo’s court steps brush upwards at Iruka, widening briefly in a show of open surprise. Something that quickly gets ironed out to something placid, guarded, unreadable. Sakumo hums noncommittally, neither confirming nor denying, his steady hands carefully gathering his fallen groceries, bruised fruit and vegetables back into the soaking plastic bag. Iruka helps immediately, shaking out dirt and rainwater from the leafy greens and putting it back into the bag.

“You shouldn’t help me,” Sakumo says, his voice even and calm, the baritone deep. “Or your reputation will be ruined, too.”

“I don’t care,” Iruka murmurs, taking the last of bruised iyokan from the corners of the alley and carefully setting them back into the bag. “They’re wrong. One decision that may have yielded unfavorable decision doesn’t erase _years_ of good, dedicated service to Konoha. People forget the good when the ‘bad’ is still new. You shouldn’t let them beat you like this. It’s not right, Hatake-san. Now look, they’ve ruined your meal. Jerks…”

Sakumo is looking at him like he’s seeing his fellow shinobi for the first time. There is something small and almost a brief sheen of vulnerability that flashes briefly in the depths of his dark gaze, brightening it like the night sky for just a short moment. It’s gone in a second, as Sakumo blinks it away and casts his gaze downwards, humming in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Iruka pushes himself up to his feet with Sakumo, shivering under the fall the rain.

“You have my gratitude,” Sakumo murmurs, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. Or maybe it had been a trick of the flashing lighting above their heads. “One day, perhaps I can repay my debt.”

Iruka blinks and swallows, an embarrassed flush blooming on his cheeks. “You can repay me by telling me where I can find the cheapest lodging in the area?” He asks, sheepish, rubbing the edge of the scar.

“Lodging?” Sakumo tilts his head to the side.

“Ah, well, I’m a little displaced, at the moment…” Iruka explains vaguely, not quite sure how to explain being sent back eighteen years to the past to the man before him.

“If you require lodging, my estate has plenty of rooms,” Sakumo offers, expression once again placid.

Iruka is taken by surprise. “A-Ah, no, that’s too much, Hatake-san. Directions at this point would be more than appreciated and will suffice given—“

“I insist.” Sakumo dips his chin, a wrinkle appearing between his brows.

The tone leaves no room for argument. It comes out crisp, sharp, almost like a command that makes Iruka flush to the roots of his hair and lick rain water wet lips. It’ll get him out of the rain and it would certainly beat a cell in Torture and Interrogation. Iruka swallows, nods quietly and bows, expressing his sincerest gratitude in the most polite way he is able.

*

The Hatake estate sits atop the crown of a small hill, gated by a traditional concrete wall and a large wooden door. Iruka remembers walking by the abandoned estate during his younger years, usually when he’s on his way to train with his genin team. The house, from his time, had grown as dreary as the landscape around it, overgrown weeds taller than Iruka surrounding the concrete walls, tucking it away from view, forgotten and hidden from plain sight. Iruka knows that the estate has remained empty for years, one of the few that suffered little damage during the Kyuubi attack only because of its location in the suburbs. It had mostly grown to become a nesting ground for wild animal, its interiors covered by over grown weeds and wild fauna and flora.

But here, the estate is enormous block of polished wood and concrete, it’s façade decorated by carvings and a prettiness no other abode had other than perhaps, the Hyuugas or maybe even the Uchihas. It doesn’t hold a candle next to the Sarutobis, the Naras or even the Akimichis. The brass doorknocker and knob is heavy, sturdy, something that yields easy under Sakumo’s palm when he pushes past the main gate and into the interior of the Hatake walls, where it opens up to a lush spread of a garden, yards and yards of green wet green grass and embracing nature. Trees line and hang over a koi pond, its surface disturbed by a hundred circles from the patter of the winter rain and there, in the center of it all, towers a giant oak tree, it’s shadow looming over the clay tiled roof of the house and over the pond that no doubt, come summer, the shade would look like it had peppered diamonds over the shadows it’s glorious branches would cast over the grounds.

Iruka knows his mouth is hanging open, something he quickly snaps shut when Sakumo turns to look over his shoulder, a silver brow quirked in Iruka’s direction in silent question. Iruka had come from a modest family, lived in a home that had been comfortable and not at all grand like this. They had a small garden, something his mother had been quite proud of and something his father had tended to with loving hands; it is nothing compared to this.

Feeling a little out of place, Iruka shivers in the cold, hisses a breath through his teeth and follows Sakumo into the warmth of the house, which further opens up to polished woods, tatami screens and the soft smell of freshly steeped tea and lemon grass candles.

“I’ll get you something to change into,” Sakumo says, once he closes the door and takes out a pair of slippers for Iruka from the small storage unit by the genkan. “Give me a minute.”

“You’re very kind,” Iruka says softly, dipping his head once more and feeling shame burn through the rest of his body at him leaving dripping mess on the floor.

Soft footsteps echo through out the quiet of house, as Iruka stands there waiting, looking around and trying to search for a presence. A small one peeks from the banister of the stairs down the hall, wide black eyes curious. Iruka catches a mop of silver hair as his eyes widen, because _is that Hatake Kakashi_?

Their eyes meet, just as Sakumo’s feet appear and his hand gently pats the small head by the stair case, a small gesture of affection that leaves Kakashi looking up at his father, wonder and hero worship in his eyes that leaves Iruka aching to the depths of his bones.

If his history is right, Kakashi is about four years old when Sakumo dies. Kakashi would grow up alone, with a huge inheritance and left to fend for himself because he’s a genius child who had graduated the academy far too early, rendering him unfit to be part of the orphan system when he is old enough to earn an income for himself. Konoha takes care of its orphans but it had lacked the empathy. Iruka would know. He’s lived through it.

“Here,” Sakumo hands over a towel, a yukata and a pair a pair of socks. “I’ve turned on the heater. You can change in the guest room. It’s on the right after the stairs.” Sakumo points down the hall, at the stairs. “You may use that room, as well.”

“Then, pardon the intrusion,” Iruka graciously says, bowing once more and sucking a deep breath before he hurries down the hall to trek as little water as he can on the floor, bypassing the curious head tilt of what looks like a four-year-old Hatake Kakashi, sitting at the stair landing and eyeing him curiously.

*

Iruka is grateful for the privacy of the room and the fact that it has a small connecting bathroom for him to use. The room on its own has its own door that opens up to the engawa, where through the pouring rain, Iruka can see rows of potted lilies lining the small grass clearing. Iruka spots a bird feeder in the corner, rather ornate in its wooden polish finish.

His room alone is rather on the lavish side. Or at least, it’s a lot more lavish than where Iruka currently lives. There is a small cabinet and a chest drawer, a full length mirror and a low futon set upon a wooden frame, stacked with four pillows and enough space for two. A small space heater lies in the corner, something that Iruka turns on immediately on high before he rushes to the connecting bathroom to strip out of his wet uniform.

A hot shower and a change of clothes later, Iruka hangs out his clothes over the small tub. It’ll take forever to dry but at least if its merely damp he can bring it to the room to utilize the heater.

It’s a basic room, with a tasteful painting hanging on the wall of the rising sun. Iruka is in no shape or form to complain.

*

Clad in warm socks and a dark gray yukata, Iruka exits his room to find Sakumo in the kitchen, a kettle of water on the stove, while Sakumo handles a kitchen knife, chopping through some vegetables. By the sink, Kakashi stands on a stool, rinsing out some of Sakumo’s earlier purchases and patting them dry with a dishtowel.

Standing by the doorway, both father and son look up. They look so much a like now that Iruka looks at the side by side. Kakashi’s cheeks is still round with baby fat, something that Iruka knows will end up looking as angular as his father’s, all sharp features and a pointed nose, jawline angular and eyes narrower. Kakashi, for the lack of a better word, is a rather cute child. Round, small, rather skinny and all sharp elbows and sharp knees, a bit of a flush present on his cheeks, obscured by a thatch of messy, wild silver hair. Something that won’t change even when he grows older, Iruka knows. Iruka finds himself clearing his throat, averting his gaze quickly, heat spilling over his cheeks, spreading all the way down his neck.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Iruka offers, trying not to fidget awkwardly by the doorway.

Sakumo’s lips twitch upwards, his gaze softening to what looks like a disarming look. “Would you like to…?” Sakumo holds out the knife and head of cabbage he had been working on.

“Of course,” Iruka answers, stepping further into the warm kitchen. He pauses by the knife turning to face father and son. “Forgive my manners. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Iruka, thank you for taking care of me.” Iruka bows low, right at the waist. “I will do my best to help as much as I can. I am in your debt.”

“Maa, you’re too formal, Iruka-san,” Sakumo says, peppered with polite gentleness. “This is my son.”

“Hatake Kakashi,” Kakashi says, his voice small, a little high pitched, soft in its tenors, almost raspy from lack of use probably.

Iruka smiles at them both, his gaze lingering on Kakashi. “It’s nice to meet you, Kakashi-kun. Thank you for letting me stay. You have a lovely home.”

Kakashi’s lips purses to a thin line, his nose wrinkling just the tiniest bit, before pink dusts over the roundness of his pale cheeks. “Hmm, it’s not a problem. You are father’s guest.”

“Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help, okay? At any time. I will do my best!” Iruka grins, dimples dotting his cheeks, something that makes the flush on Kakashi’s cheeks darken even more before he stammers out a soft ‘okay’ at Iruka’s enthusiasm.

Iruka is halfway through chopping the head of cabbage when Sakumo appears by his elbows with a tray of eggs, cracking some into a bowl. “Forgive my son’s shyness. We don’t get a lot of guests often.”

“I think he’s quite wonderful, Hatake-san,” Iruka says, sincere in the words. “I do mean it. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do in return for you both. I’m quite good in house chores. My mother made sure of it.”

Sakumo huffs a small sound of amusement. “I don’t suppose your mother taught you how to make nasu dengaku, did she?”

Iruka looks up at that, and _grins_.

*

When dinner is set, Kakashi’s eyes are as wide as saucers, just as Iruka sets down the last serving plate of cabbage egg rolls, oven roasted fish, nasu dengaku, miso soup and generous bowl of spinach salad. Iruka begins plating bowls of rice into perfect round mounds, his yukata sleeves folded and tucked at the elbows.

Kakashi doesn’t move however, staring at the table like he’s unsure if he should. Sakumo doesn’t either, some kind of tension tugging at the length of his spine, pulling his broad, lean and strong shoulders to a tight curve, his lips pressed to a thin line.

Iruka is suddenly wondering if he had perhaps overdone things again. “A-Ah, did I – is it not to your liking?”

“No, it’s not that at all, Iruka-san, it’s just…” Sakumo brings a hand up to the back of his head, smoothing the hair and patting at the knot of his ponytail. “Kakashi and I aren’t used to quite a lavish spread. It’s been a while, ne, Kakashi?”

“A lavish…” Iruka trails off, looking at the food on the table, something that hadn’t taken more than an hour to prepare. He didn’t think it was lavish. If anything, it’s quite a basic spread. Iruka remembers his dinners with his family; something like this would have been an everyday occurrence.

“It looks good,” Kakashi says, picking up his chopsticks, bowing and thanking Iruka for the meal.

“Thank you for this, Iruka-san,” Sakumo says, his lips curving to a small smile. His eyes however, remain as sharp as the edge of the knife, piercing Iruka with a look that leaves the hairs on the back to rise and goosebumps to break across the length of his back and arms. “We are grateful.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Iruka says, willing the heat to leave his cheeks, shifting just a touch uncomfortably in his seat at the dining table.

Sakumo’s gaze doesn’t leave him. Not through out dinner.

*

Iruka remains a gracious guest long after dinner. He offers to do the dishes and cleanup, takes the trash out and wipes down the kitchen. When done, he offers both father and son some tea, which Kakashi takes upon himself to show him where things are kept in the kitchen.

When Iruka comes out with a tray of tea, Sakumo asks Kakashi to give him and Iruka some privacy. Something Kakashi quickly scrambles to do, his voice soft in acknowledgment as he takes his tea and disappears to the other end of the house.

Iruka looks behind his disappearing figure. He didn’t think it was necessary for Sakumo to dismiss the boy. Iruka wouldn’t have minded Kakashi’s presence at all.

(It’s a curious thing, Kakashi as a child, that is.)

“I don’t suppose you plan on telling me who you really are, hmm?” Sakumo says, voice neutral, not a hint of a threat in his tone, something that leaves Iruka sitting there in seiza, suddenly on guard. “Who are you, really, Iruka-san? What’s your goal here? And please, try not to act so foolishly. You’re surrounded.”

Iruka opens his lips to answer, but quickly shuts it, trying to rack his brain on what could have gone wrong. As far as he can tell, he hadn’t betrayed anything that would have given away the fact that he is from the future. He has done nothing but remain nice, a gracious and helpful guest, nothing to trigger an alarm.

“What gave me away?” Iruka asks softly, his shoulders slumping, wrists lying limp on his lap.

“Your vest.” Sakumo tilts his head to the side. “I’ve never seen that particular shade of green before. Are they sending rookies out to scout for intel now? Is that how desperate you’ve become?”

“I am Konoha,” Iruka says firmly, narrowing his eyebrows, his hands balling in involuntary fists.

“I’m secretly the daimyo in disguise,” Sakumo states, tit for tat, not batting an eyelash. “Don’t make me do this. Not in front of my boy.”

“But I am,” Iruka says, shaking his head. “You’re not going to believe me if I tell you the truth.”

“You only have your head to lose,” Sakumo says and after a beat, he adds, “Iruka-san.” The gleam of the unsheathed tanto blade is brought to view, something that Sakumo keeps on his lap, his hand tight around the scabbard. “I’d start talking, if I were you.”

Iruka looks at the blade then trails his gaze up at Sakumo, at the blacks of his eyes, a ring of gray surrounding the blown wide focus of his pupils. There is a dangerous gleam in those depths, something that makes Iruka`s next inhale come out in a shudder. The killing intent that radiates off Sakumo curls around Iruka like cigarette smoke, slow and suffocating, making his lungs heave inwards, his shoulders stiffen even more as invisible hands start to wrap around his neck.

Iruka can`t move.

And that`s when he realizes that he`s trapped in a genjutsu.

He had let his guard down completely, trusting a fellow Konoha citizen with a small child blindly. An absolute rookie mistake.

Isn`t that the first thing they teach you in Academy? Never let your fucking guard down?

(But why would he mistrust anyone who carries Konoha`s symbol in the first place?)

Iruka flushes with humiliation, the heat washing down the length of his neck. Outside, Iruka feels the menacing presence of what exactly surrounds him. Summons. Large, angry, defensive and ready to attack summons. A hoard of them.

Iruka swallows and figures, well, what has he got to lose indeed.

*

By the time Iruka finishes talking, the rain has increased its fall once more outside. Beyond the tatami screens is a wall of water, where even the trees would offer no shelter. Sakumo had remained still through out Iruka’s explanation of his battle against the Mist nins, where they were exactly two hundred kilometers east and what the last thing he had remembered.

He tells Sakumo about the wrong dates, about a future that is to be carved in stone some years from now, that the war ends and people move on. He tells Sakumo his rank and his shinobi registration. He is candid with his information because well, Sakumo is just going to be the first of many. The right thing to do now would be to grab Iruka by the scruff of the neck, seal his chakra and prep him for questioning. Iruka figures well, it had been bound to happen anyway.

Except Sakumo doesn’t quite do that.

Instead, he says, “Tell me about the future.”

Iruka is caught off guard by that. “What part exactly?”

A long pause follows before Sakumo says, “Tell me about my son…”

“He’s a war hero.” Iruka says, without hesitation. “His reputation is known across the great nations. He is feared by many. He is my commander in this mission. He… I am worried because I’ve been for hours and he’d be worried about me. He leaves no man behind. Ever.” Iruka swallows and then lowers his gaze. “Just like you…”

Sakumo says nothing, a hush falling between them. “Does he marry?”

“Not that I know of. I’m – we’re not close. I’m sorry. Maybe he’s seeing someone?” Iruka offers, his arms wrapping around his middle. “Do you believe me?”

Sakumo huffs a small sound of amusement. “Iruka-san, you are either naïve or a fool of a shinobi. I can’t decide.”

“Well, you certainly don’t have to be quite insulting, either!” Iruka gripes, staring down the legend seated but three feet across from him. “You think I don’t know how stupid I sound like? There’s no handbook written out there on, oh, here’s how you should act if you ever find yourself back in time eighteen years ago where no one you know is born yet! Really! I am grateful for the shelter, the meal and the dry clothes, but you are an ass, Sakumo-san! Good grief!”

One moment Iruka is kneeling, the next he’s got his face pressed down on the floor, his body stiffening as something foreign travels through him, the weight of Sakumo’s knee on his shoulder blade, holding him firmly in place. A cold, foreign feeling invades Iruka from the inside, crawling under his skin the onset of a fever, except icy, cruel. It doesn’t last more than few seconds, nothing more but it leaves Iruka weak, sluggish, his vision fogging for a few seconds before Sakumo’s weight comes off him.

Iruka’s chakra is sealed.

Sakumo sealed his fucking chakra.

It’s not the wrong call to make, if Iruka is being honest, but did he have to be a jerk about it.

“You could have asked!” Iruka snaps, sitting up straight and tugging the dislodged sleeve of his robe back into place, covering up his chest and wrapping his arms around his middle protectively, feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable.

“And you’d let me?” Sakumo cocks an eyebrow. “Ah, I’ve made my decision. Foolish shinobi it is.” Iruka’s mouth hangs open in indignation, something Sakumo merely throws him a dark look at before he picks the cup of tea and gives it a tentative sniff.

“I could have poisoned that!” Iruka tartly says, just out of irritation.

Iruka suddenly remembers Kakashi saying how a Hatake’s keen sense of smell is as good as the Inuzuka. Perhaps even better. The threat rings flat in Iruka's ears all of a sudden.

But Sakumo looks up over the rim of his cup, _smirks_ and then takes a sip, uncaring.

The _nerve_ of this man!

*

The next day, Iruka is escorted to the Hokage tower, a pair of wild dogs trailing after him the entire time. They are beastly, fangs sharp, as large as dire wolves in weight and menacing aura, golden eyes staring Iruka down, as if silently _daring_ him to just try and run.

Iruka doesn’t. Why would he?

When he is brought forward before the Sandaime, he is immediately flanked by ANBU. Sakumo explains the situation and Iruka ignores it in favor of looking at the Sandaime’s face. He looks younger, the stress of his second tenure as Hokage yet to age him. He has less lines on his face, his shoulders less hunched with age and the weight of Konoha’s responsibility and the Yondaime’s legacy.

Sandaime looks at Iruka with an unreadable expression before he orders the ANBU guard to take him in for questioning.

*

Iruka doesn’t know how long he spends confined to the walls of a small cell, how many nights he spends wrapped in a ratty blanket, eating tasteless gruel that reminds him of wet earth and blowing warm air into his palms to keep warm.

He lost count how many times he had to repeat the same answers.

He lost count how many times he had to be put in front of Yamanaka Inoichi, who once again, never fails to make Iruka stare.

“You still look surprised,” Inoichi says, as he takes his seat across from Iruka to prepare his mind probe.

“I’m never going to get used to how young you really look, Yamanaka-san. It’s daunting,” Iruka mutters under his breath, not bothering to fight the entire process. He didn’t want to make it difficult for himself.

“Am I really that old where you’re from?” Inoichi says.

“What are you asking me for? You’ll find out for yourself anyway,” Iruka grumbles, rubs his palms together for warm and then holds still so they can get this over and done with.

*

By the time Iruka is deemed safe and he clears interrogation, it is spring outside.

*

In exchange for being left along, the Sandaime asks Iruka to give him all the information he can that would assist them in the war. Iruka isn’t sure how time works and voices his concerns about it.

“You’re worried about time when war is upon our door?” Sandaime asks, almost amused.

It’s the proverbial ice that gets poured down Iruka’s back. The death toll in the third great war had been too much, too great.

Chastised, Iruka nods and spends _days_ pumping out all the information he can remember. A useless effort, he realizes, because Inoichi probably already had all the information they ever needed.

Perhaps, Iruka thinks, Sandaime is simply testing his loyalty and willingness to cooperate now that he’s not being held by Torture and Interrogation.

*

Iruka gets told that he’ll remain in Hatake Sakumo’s care. He gets told that he is to be under village arrest until the Hokage and council can decide what to do with him. Iruka asks if he is able to seek employment within the village square; he’s grateful they allow him _that_ at least.

He doesn’t get told if the information he has given helped.

*

Spring in Konoha comes in a million green hues. The Hatake estate isn’t covered in forst anymore but cloaked in a warmer note that makes the wooden finish of the estate shine a particular sheen of gold under the sun. There is a certain vibrancy from the blooming flower petals within the Hatake estate, something so delicate at first glance. It’s a sight to behold, igniting a small smile off Iruka’s lips that burns warm and long.

Until Sakumo’s figure appear by the entryway for the house. The ANBU escorting Iruka vanishes, leaving Iruka to walk the rest of the way towards the entrance, a scowl on his face.

“I told you I wasn’t lying,” Iruka says, in the iciest of tones he can manage.

“Apparently,” comes the bemused response. “No need to be upset. You know it’s procedure, Iruka-san.”

“I made you dinner! And nasu dengaku! You could have attempted to be less of an ass, in my most humble opinion,” Iruka huffs, holding his nose high, not cowing before Sakumo’s gaze. “An, Iruka-san, I’m taking you to the Hokage because I don’t buy your bullshit would have sufficed!”

“Ah, is that so? I’ll keep that as a reference the next time a displaced stranger who maybe a potential war criminal or spy happens to fall in my path,” Sakumo calmly answers in what sounds like a most definitely amused tone.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” Iruka snaps his gaze away, side stepping Sakumo and stepping into the genkan, toeing off the zouri he had been given. “And since I will be in your care, Hatake-san, I would also appreciate it if you cease in making fun of me at once! Am I to reside in the same room you have previously assigned to me?”

Sakumo’s lips twitches upwards to what looks like the barest hint of amusement. He gestures a hand towards the guest room to the right of the stairs. “The same one, yes.”

“Excellent!” Iruka stomps forward, walking past Sakumo. “I am allowed to look for a job. I will cause no trouble. That being said, thank you for hosting me.”

“I wasn’t left with much of a choice,” Sakumo says shutting the door and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Well, thank you all the same, Hatake-san!” Iruka spins on his heels, frustration at this pokerfaced of a man, who he knows thinks this entire thing is _hilarious_ , mounting with each step. Iruka steps into his room, determined to _not_ give Sakumo any more ammunition to secretly laugh at him, or use him as some sort of entertainment fodder.

No. He will not give Sakumo the satisfaction.

Absolutely not!

TBC


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self Beta'd. I blame Tsukki and Hades and Rika, too.
> 
> Head canon notes: Sakumo married early and had Kakashi at 17. Right now, in this past timeline, Sakumo is 21, Kakashi is 4 and Iruka is 18. Iruka goes back to the year where Sakumo commits seppuku.

On the first night at the Hatake’s residence, Iruka’s sleep is turbulent despite the softer bed, the warmer and cleaner sheets and the comforts of his much more humane room than the cot and cell he had previously stayed in; mostly due to exhaustion. He wakes up at the crack of dawn out of habit, blinking blearily in the dark and stumbling to the connecting bathroom to make himself look more presentable. The last thing he wants to do is scare the young child in the house by looking like a rendition of a children’s ghost story, or worse, have Sakumo look at him bemusedly again like he’s just taken a tumble out of the washer-dryer. He combs his hair, washes his face, straightens the only yukata he owns because they took his uniform away, and then putters outside to the kitchen to put on some tea.

It’s how Kakashi finds him, sitting on a kitchen chair, staring sleepily at the kettle, waiting for it boil, swaying a little on his seat as he listens to the distant crows of a rooster.

“Are you okay?” Kakashi asks, his voice soft. 

Iruka turns to look at him, feeling about as much as he looks, and that is not saying much considering Iruka wishes someone would just knock him over so he can conk out unconscious already. He didn’t want to dream about the mission, the team he left behind or worse, how the hell would he even get back.

(You also don’t want to think about running into your parents. That would be unbearable and you shouldn’t do anything foolish to draw attention to yourself. You’re on strict orders from the Hokage.)

“I’m great,” Iruka says, forcing his lips up to feels like a manic smile when he turns to look at Kakashi. Iruka doesn’t miss the slight twitch in the corner of Kakashi’s eye. It’s a show of how terrible he must look if a four year old finds it hard to believe his claim. How wonderful. “Would you like some tea, Kakashi-kun? Maybe breakfast? I can make you an omelette if you have some eggs.”

“Isn’t that the same as cabbage egg rolls?” Kakashi asks, blinking dark eyes up at Iruka, his lips pressing to a thin, thinking line. 

Iruka wants to say that they’re two very different things but refrains from doing so. This is the second time Kakashi seems confused about basic things that should be quite common in a household. It sends a tendril of an ache through Iruka’s chest, something that he squashes down very quickly because this isn’t foreign to him. Confusion and uncertainty like this had been a common occurrence amongst the orphans he had grown up with, especially the children who had grown up not ever knowing their parents, where their meals come to them bland, basic and repetitive, no variety, almost little to flavor and just shy of a tier better than the prison meals Iruka had been feasting on the past few weeks. It’s worse in Kakashi's case because at the moment, he isn’t an orphan yet. His father is around. He isn’t alone.

Something about that makes Iruka’s throat tighten. He’d give anything to have his parents around. He thinks it’s a damn shame that a polite, and nice boy like Kakashi finds the dinner Iruka had made weeks ago lavish and something like an omelette new and different. 

“It’s something like it, just folded once as opposed to several layers. I enjoy eating it with rice or toast. What would you like to have with it?” Iruka asks, taking control of the conversation because at this point, he’s made up his mind that Kakashi is going to have an omelette for breakfast.

“I would like to have it with rice, please. I must be prepared today. Father is training me,” Kakashi says, his eyes widening just the tiniest bit in what Iruka can see is bright excitement, a bit of a flush dusting over his cheeks.

Odd, that. Iruka would have assumed that Kakashi, roughly around this age, would have been with his genin team. If not the academy. It is the middle of the week. “How old are you, Kakashi?"

“Four,” Kakashi answers.

“You’re not training today with your team?” Iruka blinks, confused, because if he remembers the rumors right, Kakashi had graduated from the Academy at four, was a chuunin at six and a jounin just before he turned ten. He had earned his jounin title a little before he lost his entire team during the war. 

“I haven’t been assigned to a genin team yet. News of that should be arriving soon,” Kakashi responds, his chin tipping upwards, back straightening, all a defensive show of bravado, like he’s waiting for Iruka to poke fun of him or question the integrity of his statement.

Iruka isn’t surprised. No one would believe a four year old can graduate from an Academy. And if anything, Kakashi looks a lot younger than four by his slender build alone.

“Well, then, we best get you loaded up so you can perform at your best during your training. You are, after all, learning from one of the best shinobi there is, hmm?” Iruka says, dimples dotting his cheeks when he smiles sincerely, something that makes Kakashi look away all of a sudden, his hands moving to clasp together behind his back, a soft hum leaving his throat. “Why don’t you show me what vegetables you have? We’ll make one for your father too. He has to challenge you and work hard, after all, right?”

Kakashi seems to find reason in Iruka’s statement. He nods and leads the way to the vegetable drawer in the fridge, where Iruka crouches and watches as he proceeds to take out what little they had.

Thankfully, Iruka thinks he has something he can work with.

*

Sakumo is awake the moment Iruka had shifted in his room. He remains still, listening to the noise that fills the house, distant footsteps and muffled conversations between Kakashi and Iruka. The sound of utensils and the smell of oil heating and food frying is what makes Sakumo get up from bed, a frown between his brows.

What he comes out to is this:

Iruka is talking animatedly by the stove, telling Kakashi a story about how he first learned to make an omelette from his father. How his father would make omelette breakfasts every Sunday and his mother would make pancake breakfasts every Saturday. How Iruka looked forward to those meals because they were what he had called special breakfasts. All this and Kakashi listens with rapt attention, standing on the kitchen stool and watching Iruka carefully keep an eye on a pan that is sizzling with vegetables and slowly cooking an omelette.

On the counter, there are finely chopped zucchini, green onions, cabbage, parsley and tomatoes. A pot of fresh tea has been steeped and in the far corner, the rice cooker light turns green, signifying that the rice within is ready to be served. A pot on the stove boils with what Sakumo can smell is miso soup. The sink isn’t overflowing with dirty dishes but there’s a bowl stacked with a few plates, a pair of chopsticks and the chopping board. 

It’s chaotic.

It’s noisy.

When the Hatake household hasn’t ever been this lively.

It makes something in Sakumo’s stomach twist, just the tiniest bit when he watches his son’s eyes widen in wonder when Iruka folds what is indeed an omelette in a frying pan, gives the pan a good shake before sliding the contents onto a plate. There is a hunger in Kakashi’s eyes that is foreign to Sakumo. He has only seen Kakashi ever look at anything he makes like that when Sakumo used to prepare grilled saury; even that had been almost a year ago. It’s a little hard to get groceries these days when the market refuses to entertain a man like him. 

Seeing his son look excited over something simple as an omelette, Kakashi who quickly steps down from the stool when Iruka gently urges him to start setting the table as he quickly prepares a second omelette, it slams Sakumo with regret and shame all over again, the wave of it choking him until he can’t breathe because damn it all, his son shouldn’t have to suffer because of him. His little boy shouldn’t have to eat what is as good as rations because the village refuses to entertain Hatake Sakumo and by extension, Hatake Kakashi. Sakumo tells himself that he should be grateful that they treat his boy a little better, that Kakashi is able to purchase their house staples with less trouble than him.

Still.

It’s cruel for Kakashi, when the world is already cruel enough.

He didn’t need more of this.

“Good morning, father,” Kakashi greets, pushing an arm full of bowls and tea cups onto the table, standing on his tip toes. 

“Good morning, Hatake-san,” Iruka greets, turning to look over his shoulder and giving Sakumo a slightly tighter smile, nowhere near the warmth he had directed at Kakashi earlier.

“What’s going on?” Sakumo says, keeping his tone neutral as he pads to the head of the table where Kakashi had tugged the seat in silent invitation for him to sit.

“Iruka-san is making us breakfast,” Kakashi states, a bit of a small smile tugging at his cheeks. 

“Kakashi-kun says that you have an exciting day ahead. That you are training him today. I am not a freeloader who won’t contribute anything to this household. Please accept my efforts and my offer of breakfast so that you can train Kakashi-kun well, and that Kakashi-kun can also be at his best performance,” Iruka says, making Sakumo blink. It comes out a little tarty, a little challenging even, with Iruka raising his nose and standing straight, holding the spatula in a fist that rest on his hip, like he’s daring Sakumo to say something smart.

It’s amusing.

(It’s nice to be spoken to like a normal person.)

“Ah, so that’s all the racket is about,” Sakumo says, nodding his head. “Iruka-san, you have my gratitude. Although, you didn’t have to. You are our guest, after all.”

“I insist.” Iruka points the spatula at Sakumo to drive his point across. 

The gesture makes Kakashi’s eyes wide. It’s the rather uncaring and almost vainglorious expression on Iruka’s face, how he refused to be cowed by Sakumo’s resting stringent, when most people, would have been taken aback by Sakumo’s rigid exterior. Kakashi himself would pause and hesitate around Sakumo, like he’s walking on egg shells, something that makes Sakumo’s chest pinch but also leaves him confused as to how else he can correct it. After all, he had been raised the same way by his father.

Yet Iruka doesn’t seem to care at all. 

His straightforwardness, if anything, makes the corners of Sakumo’s lips curl up in a show of amusement. It’s tenacious and if anything, his household and Kakashi can use some of that energy. It’s been far too long since Sakumo has been at the receiving end of anything remotely lively. Far, far too long. 

“Well, then, if breakfast is as good as dinner from weeks ago, then I won’t stop you at all, Iruka-san,” Sakumo says, tilting his head to one side. “In fact, I won’t stop you at all if you choose to make lunch and dinner, too. I’m sure it’ll be just as delicious as I remember. Isn’t that right, Kakashi?”

Kakashi simply stands there, as if he’s a rock, not sure how to respond. 

“Please don’t get ahead of yourself, I am not your servant,” Iruka huffs, turning his attention back to the pan.

The tips of Iruka’s ears, however, is as bright as the tomatoes dotting the omelette he starts to plate.

*

Iruka is on the streets the moment Kakashi and Sakumo begins to train. He had thought he can have the time alone to think, to regroup and figure out how he’s going to beg merchants and civilians alike to let him work for minimum wage. He’s been given strict instructions, after all, to not draw attention to himself. The fact that they had taken his shinobi gear also means they don’t want him advertising his rank and ability either. Although it wasn’t said to him directly, Iruka isn’t a moron. He is capable of reading clearly between the lines.

But Iruka isn’t alone.

Sakumo clearly refuses to let him wander the streets of Konoha without being watched.

So there he is, walking down the streets with a newspaper and a pencil, looking for job advertisements that hopefully pays on a daily basis as opposed to a bi-weekly or worse, monthly basis. Beside him walks a large brown and black four and a half foot dog, almost the size of a small pony, golden eyes looking straight ahead as its black paws and black tipped tears twitches at the hubbub of the street. Tadao makes the crowd do a double take for his sheer size alone, something that Iruka has only ever seen with Inuzukas. Tadao is mostly quiet, sniffing and throwing looks that is enough to make anyone take a step back if necessary. He had given Iruka a sniff when Sakumo tasks the summon with keeping an eye on Iruka but otherwise has remained, thankfully, quiet.

Iruka isn’t sure how he feels being trailed by a guard dog, however. He isn’t sure if it’s necessary. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. The logical and intelligent part of him tells him that if he had been in Sakumo’s place, for the safety of the village, he would the same whether or not he’s been ordered by the Hokage. These are trying times where one can never be too careful, after all.

A smaller part of Iruka, however, bristles a little every time he turns to look on his right at an establishment with a wanted help sign, because Tadao would be looking at him, judging him from head to toe with his golden gaze, his mouth tugged backwards in what Iruka swears is an unimpressed look. As if trailing behind a chuunin looking for non-shinobi work is beneath him and his calibre as a summon. 

It’s not like Iruka had any choice in the matter. It probably isn’t Sakumo’s choice either if he had been commanded by the Hokage to keep an eye on a time-displaced stranger. 

And if it isn’t a command, well Iruka thinks that Tadao best be directing his attitude to his summoner because he will tolerate none of it.

“Don’t look at me that way,” Iruka sniffs, side stepping Tadao to step into the grocery story to inquire about the advertised job.

He pretends not to see Tadao tilting his large head at him, an invisible eyebrow quirked in question.

Like master, like summon, Iruka supposes.

*

It is late in the evening when Iruka stumbles tiredly upon a bar-restaurant advertising for a position of a server. They pay daily based on hours of work and they provide their own uniform. Because of the long shifts that can drag all the way to past midnight, which includes catering to demanding shinobi and maybe some of Konoha’s great unwashed, the hourly rate is higher than anything Iruka has seen all day.

With nothing more than a few ryos left to his name and desperate for some sort of income, Iruka accepts the job, signs a contract and gets handed a uniform that is not in the best quality cotton fabric. The yukata will fall a little higher than the ankles; Iruka thinks he should be grateful that it is at least navy in color. Had it been a lighter color, it would borderline as indecent upon wear with how thin the cotton is.

It is past ten in the evening when Iruka stumbles back into the Hatake household, a grocery bag in hand with two cup ramen that he intends to devour rather selfishly before he conks off to bed, his ever so loyal guard dog trailing after him, silent as a ghost. 

Sakumo greets him at the door, nodding at the summon to dismiss Tadao who promptly disappears in a puff of chakra smoke.

“I bet Tadao has had a fantastic day,” Iruka mumbles, toeing off his zouri at the genkan.

“It’s good for him to be out and about. It’s been a while,” Sakumo graciously says, lips curling in a bit of a lopsided smile.

“Please excuse the late hour,” Iruka sighs, reaching up to rub a shoulder. All the walking around and haggling wages has left him mentally exhausted. He’s been on his feet the _whole_ day.

Sakumo shuts the door, following Iruka to the kitchen where Iruka sets the kettle to boil. “Did you manage to find something suitable?”

“I don’t know about suitable; they pay better in the evenings. It's a bar-restaurant off the third junction on Tea Avenue called Kisume,” Iruka says, plopping down heavily on a kitchen chair and stretching his legs out, groaning a little bit. Sakumo is quiet, a bit of a furrow appearing between his brows. “What?”

“It doesn’t have the best reputation in town,” Sakumo points out. “Does it not exist in your timeline?”

“I figured, and no it doesn’t,” Iruka mutters, gesturing to the folded yukata in a plastic bag he had set on the table. “Their menu is cheap and it is a pick up spot. I’m aware. I could tell from the moment I stepped into the place. But they have a uniform so that’s one more pair of clothes I have on my back, even if its… quality is questionable. And they pay better than most of the other places I’ve visited. I’m not complaining. I’ve been in tighter spots before. This is good.” Sakumo hums a noncommittal sound but otherwise says nothing else. “I’m afraid I’ll be coming home late. I won’t be surprised if it’s at dawn, too.”

“Understandable.” Sakumo nods, then tips his chin at the kettle that sure enough, begins to boil. He takes out the envelope with the Hokage’s seal form his pocket, something that had come earlier that day and slide sit across the table towards Iruka. “This came today.”

“Oh!” Iruka takes it, quickly ripping it open and scanning the contents before sighing. “It’s just further instructions that for my own safety, they’ve determined I should probably stay aware from my parents.” 

“Might affect your existence, hmm?” Sakumo points out. “This is all new to everyone. Time travel.” Sakumo watches as Iruka nods slowly, folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket. “You start tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Iruka stands, taking his cup ramen with him and proceeds to pour water into the styrofoam cups. “How was training? Did Kakashi-kun do well?”

The quiet that follows makes Iruka look over his shoulder, pausing mid-stirring with the disposable chopsticks to meet Sakumo’s quiet stare. Iruka isn’t sure what to make of that look, how it pulls Sakumo’s shoulder tight, makes his lips purse to a thin line for but a mere second. Sakumo drums his fingers on the table once, before he stands and quietly heads for the door.

“Good,” Sakumo says. “He was very energetic and did well.”

“I’m sure,” Iruka chuckles, turning back to his cup ramen. “I could tell that he was so excited to be training with you. He’s lucky to have his father around to train him. He is learning from one of the best!” Iruka covers the lid of his ramen, placing his chopsticks carefully over it. “Hatake-san, please let me--”

Iruka turns and finds that Sakumo is already gone.

It puts a sharp halt to Iruka’s sentence, a frown etching on his face as he drops himself heavily on the chair frowning, wondering if what he said had been the wrong thing to say. It’d be odd if it were, because Iruka had only been saying the truth.

*

The Hatake household falls into a new and very foreign routine that Sakumo isn’t quite sure what to make of.

The moment Iruka starts working, he becomes a scarce visual presence in the house. He stumbles in everyday at dawn, his presence quiet and kept to minimal noise. He makes breakfast and keeps freshly steeped tea ready and plates covered and served at the table, the rice cooker light almost always on green or, if not plain white rice, then he repurposes rice from last night’s dinner to onigiri balls. It always comes with a note with clear block written letters that reads: _Kakashi-kun’s training snack for more power!_

(Iruka always draws a smiley face on it, too. Sakumo will never forget the look on Kakashi’s face when he first saw it, how he had blinked and then hunched his shoulders, a flush brushing over the apples of his round cheeks.)

By the time Sakumo and Kakashi leaves for training, Iruka’s chakra is a dull, exhausted thrum in the guest room, where according to Tadao, remains the case until early evening. Iruka would be up at four, where he’d prepare dinner for the Hatakes, whatever he can find in the fridge and freezer, keep it ready and covered on the kitchen counter, wash the yukata on his back and replace the wet clothes with the drying uniform on the clothes line, eat ramen and then head to work.

Iruka never touches the meals he prepares. He sticks to his cup ramen.

And that, more than anything leaves Sakumo frowning, as he sits for the tenth night at his table, tucking into a warm, delicious home cooked meal of donburi and kakitamajiru soup and fresh rocket salad, watching his son eat with an appetite he’s never seen in years. It’s rare to even have leftovers anymore. He and Kakashi would devour whatever Iruka prepares with gusto, without complaints.

It’s wrong of Iruka to not tuck into his own efforts.

Iruka didn’t even have to do any of this for them.

*

One day, dinner turns out to be oven roasted chicken and some vegetables. That makes Sakumo frown even more because he knows for a fact that he hasn’t purchased any chicken. Kakashi had looked at the bird on the serving tray with mild curiosity, head tilted. Kakashi’s never had a home roasted chicken before, certainly one that doesn’t come with roasted vegetables too.

“Did you buy the chicken, Kakashi?” Sakumo asks, rubbing the back of his head, patting his ponytail.

“No, father,” Kakashi murmurs and then proceeds to set the table as he always does once they come back and wash up post training.

Sakumo sighs softly. He is forced to draw a single conclusion.

He’s going to have to talk to Iruka about spending his hard earned wages on their meals.

*

Catching Iruka, however, proves to be difficult. 

Until one day, three weeks later, Sakumo finds Iruka stumbling into the house earlier than dawn, chakra unstable. He comes out of his room and finds Iruka fidgeting by the kitchen sink, washing his hands and patting cold water on his face and the back of his neck. 

Iruka’s chakra is disturbed, his uniform rumpled, his hair free from its usual ponytail perch. Iruka’s movements are stiff, a little angry even, the tips of his ears burning as crimson as the obi knotted on his waist. 

“Iruka-san?” Sakumo calls out and finds Iruka jumping, startled, his reaction making Sakumo bring his hands up in placating and surrendering gesture. 

Under the kitchen light, Sakumo sees a bright red hand print glowing like an angry mark on the side of Iruka’s face. The front of his yukata uniform is absolutely disheveled, hanging open all the way to the waist, a good portion of his leg exposed from where he stands. In a gesture of conscious embarrassment, Iruka tugs his clothes on properly, covering himself up, flushing a deeper red as he looks away, giving Sakumo his back to turn the tap off.

“Hatake-san, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb your sleep,” Iruka stammers out, his hands coming to grip the edge of the kitchen sink.

Sakumo can see how the gesture is a show to look controlled, as Iruka’s shoulder shake with barely contained rage or irritation or something, Sakumo isn’t sure. He turns to look at Tadao, who is sitting on his hind legs near the kitchen entryway.

“Bar fight. Someone tried to proposition Iruka-san and he fought back,” Tadao reports.

That makes Iruka throw Tadao an enraged look over his shoulder. “You forgot the part where they slapped me with a warning for defending myself,” Iruka sourly adds. “I mean if you’re going to _tattle_ , do it better for fuck’s sakes.”

Tadao grits his teeth, _growling_ dangerously, flashing sharp teeth, something that stops when Sakumo waves a hand, dismissing Tadao who disappears in a puff of chakra smoke. 

Sakumo _sighs_ , having foreseen this. The uniform Iruka wears does very little to make him unsightly. It’s a good look on him, makes him look soft and approachable. Even with the ponytail pulled back sleek and neat, it does little to hide the fact that Iruka is a pretty boy; slender, golden skin, long lashes and bright eyes. Sakumo is surprised that none of this happened earlier on in Iruka’s employment. 

“Let me see,” Sakumo murmurs, approaching Iruka and patting him on the shoulders. 

Iruka turns with a roll of his eyes, petulant, frowning, crossing his arms across his chest and holding his yukata in place. 

Right there, over the curve of his jaw, the hand print is hideous, already swelling and ugly. It will bruise, Sakumo thinks, frowning at the sight it makes on Iruka’s face. A mark like that doesn’t belong on a face like this. Not when Iruka is earnest, hard working, kind, and unselfish to people who barely deserves an ounce of his empathy.

(Sakumo certainly doesn’t deserve it.)

“I hope you hit back as hard as you talk back,” Sakumo says, bring his hand up and forming the seals for a basic field first aid iryoninjutsu, the green glow casting shadows over Iruka’s face. Carefully and gently, Sakumo presses his palm over the curve of Iruka’s cheek. 

“I kneed them in the balls, yes,” Iruka mutters, flushing a deep read. “Then dumped beer on their head. They can dock it out of my pay for all I care.”

“Good,” Sakumo says and can’t stop the lopsided grin from tugging at his lips. “I’m sure they deserve it.”

“You bet,” Iruka sniffs, awkwardly staring at a point on Sakumo’s chest, the flush on his cheeks darkening as it crawls past the slope of Iruka’s neck and disappears under the collar of his yukata. Sakumo doesn’t realize he’s following the trail of that blush until Iruka softly says, “I can take care of myself.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Sakumo says, the chakra thinning out and cutting off as he pulls his hand away from the warmth of Iruka’s cheek, now no longer molted with an ugly mark of an asshole of a man. “You’ve been taking care of me and Kakashi for a while now. Let us return the favor in whatever way we can.”

“By healing the slap on my face?” Iruka chuckles, rubbing his arm.

“By healing the slap on your face,” Sakumo repeats, peering up at Iruka. “Feel better?”

Iruka nods after a while, inhaling deeply and chewing on his lower lip. “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome,” Sakumo murmurs, taking a step back and moving to prepare some tea.

*

They drink in quiet companionship, Iruka having changed to what Sakumo notices is his third pair of yukata, dark maroon in color, splashed with grean feathers at the bottom hem and sleeve. It suits Iruka really well, the color, the look of having his hair down, looking quite relaxed and not strung up. Sakumo realizes he’s been staring when Iruka looks up at him in question, a stare that he quickly tears away in favor of picking up the mugs from the counter, handing Iruka one and awkwardly avoiding his gaze.

They sit in companionable silence in the living room, listening to the soft chirp of the cicadas and crickets in the garden. It’s only after Sakumo has taken a few sips from his cup that he decides to address the matter that’s been weighing on his mind for several days now. 

“Iruka-san, I don’t want to sound thankless because I am quite grateful, but you really don’t have to spend your hard earned wages on us,” Sakumo firmly states, setting his mug down on the coffee table. 

“Ah, about that…” Iruka takes one last sip from his mug. “Consider it rent costs.”

Sakumo twitches a little at that, reaching up to pat the back of his ponytail. “That’s not the point, Iruka-san. I’m --” Sakumo isn’t quite sure how to address any of this without drawing too much attention to himself, at the fact that the village hates him, won’t cater to him, won't have anything to do with him and how it’s clearly affecting his and Kakashi’s livelihood. “We do just fine.”

“I know,” Iruka says, punctuating it with a bit of a shrug. “I know you do, Hatake-san and honestly, it’s not an issue. A roasted chicken or a portion of salmon steak on sale doesn’t cost much. I make more than enough for myself these days. Does Kakashi-kun not like the meals?”

“It’s not that…” Sakumo is losing traction of the conversation, frustration and ego and pride warring and keeping his tongue still, his patience spreading just a touch thin with Iruka just not seeming to get the point. “He likes it. I haven’t seen him eat this well in…”

Sakumo swallows, in ever, he doesn’t say. He hasn’t seen Kakashi tuck into a warm meal with so much gusto in forever. He had been an infant when his mother passed away. And since growing out of formula, Kakashi and Sakumo had lived on take out and catered meals that doesn’t hold a candle to anything Iruka prepares for them. 

“I’m glad!” Iruka grins, bright and toothy, dimples dotting his cheeks. “I’m glad he does. He is a growing boy. He will need his strength--”

“We won’t accept your charity, Iruka-san,” Sakumo delivers sharply, his words punctuating a silence that leaves Iruka stunned, wide eyed, jaw slack. “I won’t allow that in my house.”

“But it’s not charity,” Iruka frowns, sitting up straighter. “I only -- I mean I didn’t -- why would you take it as an insult when I freely give it of my own free will?”

Sakumo honestly has no answer to that, so he settles for a frown, eyebrows knitting together. “Look, Kakashi and I--”

“I know what’s going on. You think I pity you, don’t you? Over your decision and because of how the village treats you. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” Iruka narrows his gaze. “Well it’s not pity!”

“Please measure your tone and words, Iruka-san, you are still a guest in my home,” Sakumo reminds him, bristling at this outright show of disregard for his concerns.

“It’s not charity!” Iruka insists. “It’s a contribution! I said it before and I’ll say it again. Consider my efforts and small contribution as thanks for letting me freely stay in your home. And having free access to everything else, as well. That’s all it is!”

Sakumo stiffens, his hands balling to fists on his knees. The nerve of this young man and pertinent mouth. Is this how he is with everyone he talks to? Does he just not care for decorum and respect other people’s wishes. “We don’t need your contribution.”

“So you don’t like it? At all?” Iruka swallows, crossing his arms across his middle, an open show of defense as a flush brushes over his cheeks again. “Not even Kakashi-kun? Because if that’s the case--”

“You aren’t giving me the chance to properly explain, Iruka-san. You keep cutting me off,” Sakumo points out, which promptly makes Iruka clack his jaw shut, the silence followed by a sharp inhale. “We are grateful for your contribution of preparing meals for us. I am not opposed to _that_ because if my son can have two warm meals a day, what kind of a father would I be to deny him that? For that, I am more than happy for you to continue and will continuously appreciate it if you can. As payment, if you will, for staying with us until the unforeseeable future.” Sakumo pauses and then adds, “But what I will not tolerate is you spending your wages on things that we don’t need. We are thankful for the three dinners you had prepared. But please, do not do so again. If you require ingredients, you can let myself or Kakashi know and we can do our best to procure it for you.”

Iruka doesn’t look convinced. “It’s not a big deal…”

“It is to me. Please respect that,” Sakumo firmly says.

That seems to do the trick because Iruka’s shoulders slump, the fight leaving him in a small short exhale. “Okay. I’m sorry if I hurt you in anyway, Hatake-san. That wasn’t my intention, I promise.”

“I understand.” Sakumo nods, reaching out for his mug once more. “You do enough by cleaning up after yourself and taking the trash out.” Iruka blinks off the side. “Tadao told me. Don’t look so surprised.”

“Tattle-tale,” Iruka mutters. “I don’t think he likes me, Hatake-san. Is he really necessary? All he does is wait outside the bar.”

“His job is to keep you safe and ward off impolite behavior. Tadao is quick and agile. He can easily catch flying objects--”

“Flying objects?” Iruka looks taken aback. “Why would he ever need to do that?”

“Because you live with Hatake Sakumo, Iruka-san,” Sakumo tiredly says, defeated. “That’s why…”

The silence and understand that follows leaves Sakumo tired and weary. 

Iruka is a smart man.

He knows exactly what Sakumo means.

*

Iruka starts to notice the scowls _later_ , his senses becoming hyper-aware when weeks into staying in this new reality, the storekeepers that had once been friendly start to eye him and speak to him in an outright condescending manner. They don’t refuse to sell him anything but Iruka thinks that is mostly because Tadao is beside him, flashing fangs when refusal seems to worm to the tips of their tongues.

One afternoon, Iruka is trying to purchase a new pair of zouri when the old lady of a street cart starts to wheel her cart away from him, telling him that she is closed and done for the day even though it is the middle of busiest time of the evening. Iruka then stands there, dumbfounded, when she stops at the end of the street to make a sale to another customer.

Iruka puts his hands on his hips, one feet bare on the ground, while his hand cradles one of his broken zouri with a huff. “Well, that’s just not right.” 

“You should see what they do to master,” Tadao says, huffing and shaking his head, dropping on his rump of scratch at his neck with his back leg. “They would throw water at him, yell profanities. Someone once sold him rotten fish parts instead of what he wanted to purchase. Ungrateful scums.”

Iruka goes very still at that. “Do they do the same with Kakashi?”

“Some do,” Tadao nods, straightening back up to his feet, yawning widely. “They’re a little nicer to Kakashi. We’ve told master to stop getting supplies himself, to avoid this, but he insists.”

“He doesn’t want to put Kakashi through any of this, that’s why,” Iruka murmurs, an ache going through him and settling to the deepest parts of him. It leaves his bones hurting, as if there’s an onset of a fever, making him reach up to rub his arm. “He’s just protecting Kakashi.”

“It’s a useless effort. Look, they’re already starting with you too,” Tadao points out.

“Well, I’m not having any of it! This isn’t right!” Iruka huffs, stomping forward towards the next store, determined to pick up his zouri.

They storekeeper tries to shoo him away, refusing to entertain him, waving her fan like a mad woman. Iruka argues back, tells her what she’s doing is wrong, that she has no grounds to not make a sale to him. When she starts yelling that he is the Hatake concubine, Iruka bristles, flushes a bitter red, and does the one thing he told himself he’d never do anymore ever since he became chuunin.

He grabs the correct zouri size, dumps the correct amount of money on the store front and high tails down the road, laughing and uncaring that the lady is yelling expletives, shrieking at Iruka's indignant behavior before he ducks into a quiet alley, breathless, leaning against the wall and pressing a hand to his chest.

“What was that?” Tadao asks, sounding utterly amused.

“That was a forced sale. By a jerk!” Iruka laughs, shaking the new pair of zouri from the plastic wrapping and slipping it on. “I haven’t done anything like that in a long, long time. I used to before. When I was younger. You’d be surprised how cruel some of Konoha’s citizens are to orphans. They can’t charge me for anything when I didn’t steal. They tried but in the end, they’re the ones who look bad, not me.” 

Tadao is quiet, furry head tilting. “You are a strange guy.”

“It’s called adapting for survival, Tadao,” Iruka says, tapping his foot on the ground a few times. “These are nice. Much better than the old ones.” Tadao snorts, ears twitching. “Ready to be bored out of your mind again?” Tadao’s ears twitches. “I’ll see if I can sneak a few yakitori sticks for you.”

“Five sticks.” Tadao bargains.

“Five, then,” Iruka grins, reaching forward and for the first time, Tadao allows Iruka to pat him gently on the head.

*

“Why can’t he just do the henge when getting supplies?” Iruka asks, chewing yakitori during his lunch break, crouched under the emergency stairwell by the bar’s backdoor, while his hand holds out the other yakitori stick for Tadao to eat off of. “I’ve been thinking about that. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Master has pride,” Tadao says in between chewing through a piece of chicken. “When he’s desperate, he uses henge. But otherwise…”

“What a stubborn man,” Iruka sighs. “I think I know where he’s coming from though. I don’t blame him. He doesn’t deserve this. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, Konoha can be a place of utter unkindness if they deem it necessary. People forget your achievements when you trip over a ‘mistake’. Honestly, since when did preservation of life turn to a mistake. People…” 

Iruka takes a frustrated bite off his yakitori stick, cheeks puffed out. 

“You’re one of the few if not the only one who thinks like that,” Tadao grunts, licks his lips and taking another bite off another stick that Iruka holds up. “Master and young master is lucky to have you around at this time. Master himself has never looked better. Not like this and not for a long while. Continue to take care of them and you and I won’t have a problem.”

“Wow, I’m so grateful for your vote of confidence. Especially after I got not five but _seven_ yakitori sticks,” Iruka grumbles, but grins when Tadao makes a bit of a throaty growl. “Just kidding!”

*

Iruka hates the weekends. He hates the noise, the mess that happens in the bar that usually means him staying beyond dawn to sweep up broken glass, fallen fried food and then mopping grease off the floors to a shine. Saturday nights is Kisume’s busiest nights. Iruka is already dreading the party that is happening on one side of the bar, something about someone having announced that they’re finally tying the knot or some nonsense. Iruka can’t say he’s happy for them, not when they’ve already spilled three drinks in a row. There is nothing more stubborn to clean than dried beer, especially when they get muddy with the amount of shinobi boots tracking a mess between their put together tables and the karaoke machine.

There's also the fact that weekends is when he gets prepositioned the most; ass grabs, lewd comments, a brush of a hand there, getting pinned here - Iruka hates it but he's in no position to complain. The rate doubles during the weekend and if he wants to be completely self sufficient and independent of the Hatakes, he'll have to brave being hit on a few times and just accidentally drop drinks on people, if they get too handsy. Or clumsily, if not sweetly step on their exposed toes.

“Iruka, take this to table ten and eleven, please,” the cook, Hashi-san, says, lining four baskets of chicken wings and two plates of fried dumplings. 

“Again?” Iruka whines, slumping because he _just_ delivered the exact same amount and kind of food earlier. “Can’t they make up their minds and just order ten at a time or something?” Iruka grabs a tray, lining the grease paper covered plastic baskets.

“Well, as long as they keep ordering, that means more cash,” Hashi says, making a paper bill counting gesture beyond the kitchen window and disappears back inside.

Iruka blows the bangs off his face, sucks in a breath and trudges back towards the rowdy table, quickly plastering a large smile. “Hi! So four baskets of chicken wings!” Iruka barely dodges a cheery arm that shoots up out of nowhere, one that gets yanked back down by a giggling female, as Iruka quickly sets down basket so he can get away from the table as quick as possible, lest he ends up with cocktails all over his face, hair and clothes. It’s not yet midnight and he’d rather _not_ work the rest of the night all sticky and gross. “And two dumplings--”

“Ay! More food! Yes!” The man’s arm shoots up again.

This time Iruka swerves a bit to the right, barely missing the drunken, cheerful fist pump in the air. 

“Ikkaku!” the woman crows, giggling before she turn familiar, wide beautiful brown eyes that Iruka hasn’t seen in _years_ at Iruka. “Excuse my fiance! He’s very happy today! Thank you!”

Iruka stands there, frozen, his gaze dropping to the handsome and gods, so, _so_ young face of his father, who is now drunkenly flashing him a grin that is as wide as Iruka remembers. Iruka remembers lame dad-jokes, bad puns and cheerful songs. Ikkaku’s moustache right now is wispy, not yet in its full growth that Iruka is more familiar with. 

Iruka finds himself unable to breathe, his chest heaving up and down, as he watches Kohari, his mother, his beautiful, beautiful mother chuckle behind pink painted nails. She has a short bob for a haircut, not yet touching her shoulder, but just brushing against her jaw, her bandana forehead protector tied securely over her head. She has lipgloss on, a ring on her finger that Iruka remembers so, so well.

By the gods, Iruka thinks, as his eyes begin to water, his lips trembling and sure enough, a glass of cocktail ends up spilling all over his yukata front, courtesy of Ikkaku, who knocks it back by accident.

The splash of cold makes Iruka gasp, taking a step back, breaking the shock and making him turn and run out of there, away from his parents, away from the sweet voice of his mother who throws apology after apology behind him. Away from his father’s laugh that even drunken, sound so, so like him.

Iruka clocks out immediately, excusing himself and paying no attention to the outraged cry of the owner who hates being understaffed on a weekend.

Iruka who keeps running and running, Tadao at his heels, barking and barking, as he goes as far as the edge of the village, all the way up the hill and down into the forest where he ducks into the tree-line until he reaches the river. The very river where he watched his parents disappear into the jaw of the kyuubi, his mother fighting bravely to the last minute, his father channeling earth chakra even as they soar in the air and all drop helplessly into the Kyuubi’s jaw, sharp teeth keeping them prisoner and reducing them to nothing but crushed flesh and bone, their cries lost to the kyuubi’s roar.

Iruka falls to his knees and retches, vomiting shock and grief, his elbows trembling as Tadao hovers behind him, pacing, restless, walking back and forth, nudging him with his snout and calling his name over and over again.

But Iruka doesn’t hear them, doesn’t listen because he sits there, staring at the river after emptying his stomach, shaking and so unsure what to do, feeling so lost and alone that he wishes, more than anything, that he was never sent back in time at all. That he never ran into his parents who are alive, and getting married, and so fucking _happy,_ so, so blissfully happy. They’d marry and move in together soon and come the next year, they’d be expecting him.

Iruka shakily pushes himself up to his knees, staring at the river that would one day turn to a bloody battlefield, of squashed body parts, severed hands, legs and feet and a horror display of jutsus failing before the power of the kyuubi. 

He stares and feels sick all over again, nausea slamming into him as he takes one step backwards and another and another, and starts running in the opposite direction, because maybe if he runs enough, maybe if he works His legs, his lungs hard enough, he can pretend the tightness in his chest is not joy and want and need to wrap his arms around his parents, to just hug them one more time, and tell them how sorry he is for not listening to them, for not spending time with them, for not taking the trash out or saying that I hate broccoli and cauliflower, or making faces at dad singing when I wish you’d sing to me again, over and over again, that I’m sorry I didn’t listen to mom’s lectures, her lessons in chakra control, when I wish you’d teach me now, everything you know. I wish I didn't skip not one dinner or lunch, that I wish I didn't prefer time with friends when I should have spent every moment with you! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorryI’msorryI’msorry--

Iruka misses his footing on a tree branch and takes a tumble, crashing through mulberry bushes and into the dirt road. He looses a zouri, his yukata ripping at the sleeve as he remains lying there, on his face, tears welling in his eyes as he carefully pushes himself back up, pushing away at Tadao’s concerned sniffs, lips trembling, shaking his head, over and over again, ignoring Tadao’s concerned question of what’s wrong, _what’s wrong Iruka_?

Iruka bites his lower lip and steadies Tadao, hushing him, brushing his hand over his flank gently, over and over again until right there, in the middle of the quiet dark road, Iruka crumples and cries with abandon, ducking forward and pressing his forehead on warm furr, the sobs wracking out of him as if it’s only yesterday that he’d lost his parents.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadao is a huge ass german shephard. Tadao means loyalty. He is one of Sakumo's 10 summons. Made it up. LOL.
> 
> Guys, I am so BLOWN AWAY by the attention and support this story is getting! I hope you continue to support it and ship this wonderful pairing! Thank you so, so, sooooo very much for all your comments!

**Author's Note:**

> I do no need more WIPs. I really, really don't. But uh. I couldn't HELP MYSELF!


End file.
